by M C Beaton
He was tall and broad-shouldered and had a square, pleasant handsome face. His hair was very fair, almost white, and worn somewhat longer than the current fashion, which was for Brutus crops. His eyes were a brilliant blue, dancing and sparkling, and almost hypnotic. He smelled of good soap and fresh linen.
He bowed and took her hand and deposited a light kiss on her glove. “Does your husband attend this evening?” he asked.
“No, alas, I am alone.”
“Then I am fortunate. I find your husband a most terrifying gentleman who would probably call me out were he here.”
“And why would he do that?” asked Lucinda, her eyes glinting over her raised fan.
“Your beauty would drive any man mad with jealousy, let alone such a fiery character as Rockingham.”
Lucinda sent up a little prayer for forgiveness. “I do not interfere with my husband’s life, nor he with mine.”
“A very modern marriage,” said Mr. Dancer. “Ah, you are already moving away from me. Are you leaving so soon?”
“Yes,” said Lucinda. “I do not like routs and do not know why I bothered to attend this one.”
“Please accept my escort. I should consider myself honored above all men.”
“I should be glad of your company, Mr. Dancer. I need help in pushing my way through this crush.”
He led the way and Lucinda followed.
“She is leaving with Dancer,” Maria hissed in Mr. Carter’s ear. “Dare we hope…?”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Carter. “Bags of hope there, I should think.”
Mr. Dancer traveled with Lucinda in her carriage. He talked easily and wittily of the plays he had seen. He did not make any bold overtures. Lucinda was surprised to find him such good company. When they arrived in Berkeley Square, she invited him indoors for tea, but Mr. Dancer did not want to risk meeting her husband. Instead, he bowed and begged permission to take her driving on the morrow. Lucinda agreed.
Kennedy followed her mistress into the house. She was very worried. She remembered all the indiscreet gossip she had told Benson. Benson, it had transpired, was not maid to an elderly lady, but to a member of the Fashionable Impure. Kennedy did not know much fashionable gossip, or she would have learned of Mrs. Deauville’s reputation, but she prided herself on being able to tell a lady from a demimondaine. And, in Mrs. Deauville she had immediately recognized a demirep. She was desperate to see Benson as soon as possible so that she might demand an explanation.
She prepared her mistress for bed, asking, as she did so, leave to take the following afternoon off. “Of course,” Lucinda agreed. “I have been in the habit of dressing myself. Nothing the matter with your family, I trust?”
“My family is well, my lady. They reside in Exeter in Devon, not London. I merely wanted to view the shops.”
Lucinda was about to point out that Kennedy had already had more than enough free time to visit as many London shops as she wished, but then she reminded herself of how supportive the maid had been. Possibly Kennedy had a beau, although it was hard to imagine the grim-faced maid being able to attract anybody.
When Kennedy retired, Lucinda found she could not sleep. She lay awake listening for sounds of her husband’s return.
She at last fell into a light sleep from which she was roused at three in the morning by the sound of the street knocker. She heard Humphrey going to answer it, her husband’s voice, and then the opening and shutting of a downstairs door, possibly the saloon.
This was subsequently followed by a door opening again and her husband roaring some command. Then there was a lot of toing and froing, and then silence. Lucinda shifted uneasily in her bed. Then she got up and locked her bedroom door, realizing she had forgotten to do so. She lay awake for about an hour but there came no sounds of her husband ascending the stairs.
Lucinda remembered the evening she had danced with him at Almack’s, remembered the odd feeling of safety she had felt in his arms. She decided to go downstairs to see if she could talk to him, to see if there was anything of worth hiding under that rakish and dissipated exterior.
She rose and pulled on a wrapper over her nightgown, slipped on a pair of flat-heeled shoes, and made her way quietly downstairs. The house was still and silent. Then an old clock in the hall sent out a wheezing volley of chimes, making her start. Holding her bed candle in its flat stick, she pushed open the door of the saloon.
The first thing she saw was a large bath placed before the fire. The marquess had called for a bath, Chumley had grumbled about the work involved carrying it plus cans of water upstairs, and the drunken marquess had cheerfully volunteered to take his bath in the saloon.
The candles were lit so Lucinda blew out her own and made her way forward. How like Rockingham to take his bath, leave towels and soap scattered over the carpet, and then go off to bed without ordering the servants to clean up the mess.
She looked into the bath and found herself staring down at the naked body of her husband.
She let out a stifled little scream and was about to retreat when she realized how still and motionless he was. Only his nose was left above the water. His eyes were closed. He’s dead, thought Lucinda. He has finally drunk himself to death.
“Oh, Rockingham!” she cried. She knelt down beside the bath and slid her hands under his shoulders and tried to raise him.
Suddenly his heavy eyelids lifted and his green eyes stared straight into her own, the initial dazed look being quickly replaced by one of sheer devilment.
“Hey, this is better,” the marquess cried. He seized Lucinda around the waist and tipped her into the bath on top of him and then rolled her down underneath him, pinning her down in the tepid water with his naked body.
“Let me up, you monster!” Lucinda screamed.
Her hair was floating out on the water and she kicked and thrashed impotently under his weight.
“Keep still, damn you!” the marquess shouted, forcing his lips down on hers so that her head went under and the kiss took place underwater. Lucinda surfaced from his embrace, gasping and spluttering.
“My lord?” came a voice from the doorway.
“Chumley! Thank heaven!” said Lucinda.
“What the deuce do you mean by crashing in here?” demanded the marquess.
“I heard your lordship roar,” said the unperturbable Chumley. “But as my services are obviously not required—”
“No, they are not, curse your eyes.”
“Wait!” screamed Lucinda. She succeeded in struggling out from under her husband’s body by fighting and kicking. The marquess tried to pin her down again. The bath tipped over and naked marquess and dripping marchioness rolled over the carpet. Sobbing with shame and outrage, water pouring from her, Lucinda fled from the room.
“Gone away!” cried the marquess, setting off in pursuit. But he tripped over something and fell in the hall. He whipped about, suspecting Chumley had stuck out his foot, but the valet was standing with his arms folded, looking at the ceiling. The marquess leapt to his feet and shot off up the stairs after his wife.
Lucinda ran into her room, remembered she must lock the door, and was just about to do so when the door crashed open and her naked and grinning husband stood on the threshold.
Lucinda seized a warming pan that was propped on the end of the bed and, holding it like a broadsword with both hands, she swung it around and let it fly, straight at her husband. He ducked and darted back into the corridor. Lucinda fell against the door, slamming it shut and turning the key in the lock.
There came a furious kicking and pounding at the door.
“Your dressing gown, my lord.” Chumley’s voice came faintly to Lucinda’s ears.
“Who put this lock on the door?” the marquess shouted.
“Possibly you did so yourself,” Chumley said. “I think there always was a lock on this particular door. A letter came today from Mr. Rendell, one of your tenant farmers. It appears he is going to shoot Mr. Kay, one of your other tenant farmers, ov
er a matter of boundary rights.” Chumley was expected to open and read all his master’s post.
“I know them both well. What am I supposed to do about it in the middle of the night?”
“It is nearly morning and we set out for the country in a few hours, which is why I brought up the matter of the farmers’ dispute.”
“Chumley, I do not recall making arrangements to go to the country. When did I tell you?”
“Why, the night, my lord, when we were returned from Paris.”
“Can’t remember anything about last night.”
“Exactly, my lord.”
There was a long silence. Inside the bedroom, Lucinda waited, trembling.
Then she heard her lord say in a puzzled voice, “What am I doing standing in this corridor dripping wet?”
“You walked in your sleep, my lord. If you will come this way, I will proceed to barber you. You will agree, my lord, that since you have already had a good night’s sleep, there is no reason to delay our departure.”
Lucinda let out a slow breath of relief as she heard their footsteps going away.
She pulled off her wet nightclothes, toweled herself dry, and put on a fresh nightdress. She was just about to get into bed when there came a scratching at the door.
“Who is it?” she called sharply.
“Chumley, my lady.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Lucinda slid out of bed and crossed the room and unlocked the door.
She stood on tiptoe and peered over Chumley’s shoulder as if expecting to find her husband crouched behind his valet.
“I am no Trojan horse, my lady,” said Chumley in hurt accents.
Despite the upheaval of her emotions, Lucinda began to giggle. “A Trojan horse carries the enemy inside, Chumley. Come in and state your business. But first: can I expect another visit from my lord?”
“No, my lady. He is now convinced he has enjoyed a good night’s sleep and we are about to set out for his country home.”
“He is surely mad!”
“No, my lady. Like most of our ton-nish gentlemen, my lord cannot remember anything that happens when he is drunk.”
“So it was you who persuaded him that he had made arrangements to leave?”
“In a manner of speaking, my lady. I am accustomed to anticipating my master’s wishes.”
“And you are about to anticipate another, which is why you are here?”
“Yes, my lady. I think my lord would like the direction of Lord Chamfreys.”
“Why, pray?”
“To call on Mr. Westerville. It is only fitting that he should pay his respects to his father-in-law.”
“A most worthy thought, Chumley, but spare my poor sick father such a visitation.”
Chumley stared up at the cornice as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.
“My lord is very quiet and hardworking in the country,” the valet said. “He drinks only water and attends to matters of the estate. Much better to have such a visit over and done with, my lady, then to risk Mr. Westerville’s paying a surprise visit to town.”
“Very well,” Lucinda said reluctantly.
“Wait until I write a letter to my father.”
Chumley cast an anxious look in the direction of the door. “Perhaps just the address will do, my lady. My lord may come in search of me.”
Lucinda hurriedly scrawled down the address and handed it to him. Chumley scurried off.
I wish I could go to the country with him to see this husband of mine in a virtuous mood, Lucinda thought wistfully, and then immediately scolded herself for being a fool. Rockingham was a monster. She wanted to see how he would like being married to a philanderer. And what would he say if she behaved like him, roaring and shouting and smashing things?
Then she remembered her engagement with Mr. Dancer. She wondered whether to cancel it now that Rockingham was not going to be about to be made jealous—if he could be made jealous.
But perhaps it would be as well to lay a little groundwork. She could not turn into a rake overnight. But women were not called rakes; they were called sluts and worse names. Lucinda thought of Mrs. Deauville and her face hardened. Society could call her any name it pleased just so long as her infuriating husband received a taste of his own medicine.
9
Mr. Dancer had no thought of seducing Lucinda as he set out to take her for a drive. Although he was physically well-built, it was vanity which made him keep his body trim rather than any desire to excel in manly sports. Rockingham was too formidable a man to cross and Mr. Dancer had no desire to end up stretched out dead on a dueling field in Chalk Farm or Hampstead Heath.
But he was bored, and the idea of driving Lucinda added a little spice to life. One drive would surely not rouse Rockingham’s ire.
As Lucinda climbed into his carriage, he reflected that a great deal of her charm lay in the fact that she was not precisely beautiful by fashionable standards. Her generous mouth seemed made for passion and he found the unfashionable slenderness of her body enchanting. For although Lucinda had put on some much-needed weight, she was still considered too thin in an age that appreciated large bosoms and plump, rounded arms.
He had to confess that Lucinda’s seemingly artless statement that her husband was gone from town did ease a certain trepidation in his breast.
The day was fine and warm although a mass of black clouds piling up in the west did not augur well for the rest of the day.
Everything in the park was very still and bright. Trees were emerald green, and masses of roses in the flowerbeds by the Serpentine a gaudy blaze of pink and white.
“And how does married life go with you?” asked Mr. Dancer.
“I do not know yet,” said Lucinda. “I do not see much of my husband.” Then she remembered his naked body stretched out in the bath and a deep blush suffused her face.
“Ah, well, there is great freedom in London society for a married woman,” said Mr. Dancer.
“I do not think women have much freedom,” Lucinda said. “Even being rich appears to mean one is locked in a cage of idleness, and it does not suit me to be idle.”
“Most ladies have their amours.”
“They are welcome to them,” said Lucinda, forgetting she was supposed to be attracting Mr. Dancer. “You see, I should think that to have an affair would involve a tedious amount of intrigue and dread.”
“But if the heart is engaged, why then it can be heaven!”
“I do not think infidelity is considered one of the qualities necessary to get through the pearly gates.”
“Ah, a Puritan.”
“Not I,” said Lucinda. “How well you drive, Mr. Dancer.”
“I am reputed to be quite good,” he said. “Of course, I could not hope to outclass your husband.”
A strong feeling of resentment toward her absent husband welled up in Lucinda’s breast and she said tartly, “Mr. Dancer, even the respectable Lord Freddy does not drive me in the park to prose on about my husband.”
“Pomfret! I have competition for your favors.”
“Sir, I did not know you were interested in gaining my favors.”
Mr. Dancer had all the practiced seducer’s capacity of being able to fall violently in love for a short time. He looked at Lucinda and felt a longing to take her in his arms.
“Why do you frown?” he asked.
“Someone is approaching whom I detest,” said Lucinda in a low voice.
Mr. Dancer looked with interest at the advancing carriage and recognized the occupants as the Countess of Clifton and her daughter, Lady Ismene. As both carriages came abreast, Mr. Dancer bowed but Lucinda dipped her parasol to hide her face.
“Did you see that, Mama!” exclaimed Ismene, twisting her head around to look back at Mr. Dancer’s retreating carriage. “That slut, Lucinda! Not content with marrying one rake, she must needs take another as lover.”
“It is a brave man who would r
isk Rockingham’s displeasure,” said the countess. “Either Mr. Dancer is deeply in love at last or Rockingham is gone from town.”
When Lady Clifton and Ismene returned home, Ismene sent her new maid around to Berkeley Square to see if anything could be found out about the whereabouts of Rockingham. The maid returned after a while to say that a kitchen maid had said my lord was in the country at Cramley, his home in Wiltshire.
“Then he shall hear from me how she behaves in his absence,” said Ismene. “Wait there, and I shall give you a letter for the post.”
Lucinda returned home after a pleasant drive. But she had no interest in seeing Mr. Dancer again until the presence of her husband should make that necessary.
In vain did Mr. Dancer try to take her to the opera or the theater. Lucinda replied she was much too busy completing the renovations of the house. Had she immediately accepted just one of his invitations, then it is possible that Mr. Dancer’s interest in Lucinda would have withered away.
But adversity is a great aphrodisiac and the path of the true philanderer never did run smooth. By the time he reached his own home, Mr. Dancer was convinced he was in love with Lucinda.
Lucinda was surprised to find Kennedy still absent, for it was getting on for six in the evening.
Kennedy had found out Mrs. Deauville’s address from Humphrey, the butler, who, unlike Kennedy, knew a great deal of gossip about the ton. She had hung about Montague Street, waiting to see if Benson would emerge.
At last she saw a carriage being brought around to the front of the house. Mrs. Deauville came out accompanied by a lady’s maid. But this maid was a thick-set middle-aged woman and definitely not Benson.
Waiting until Mrs. Deauville’s carriage had turned the corner of the square, Kennedy went forward to the house and made her way down the area steps at the side of the front door.
A kitchen maid answered the door. Kennedy asked for Benson. The kitchen maid looked at Kennedy with disapproval and said, “I shall tell Mr. Quinton you are here.”
After a few moments, a butler came to the door and said sharply, “Why do you want to know about Benson?”
